


that's how the lost get found

by majorshipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:50:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorshipper/pseuds/majorshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the bar, he flirts with a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and <i>she</i> buys <i>him</i> a drink and says "Next time, don't forget to watch your back," before disappearing with a wink.</p><p>Mild spoilers for 6x21.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's how the lost get found

**Author's Note:**

> Because, dang it, they could be awesome.

If there’s one lesson Ben’s picked up in the past ten years of his life, it’s that going into a bad situation with nobody at your back is a bad idea. It’s the kind of thing that’s nearly gotten him killed many times over, but it’s hard to find someone who’ll put up with his music and his car and his habits and his obsessions.

Before her, it was just him and his Chevy that isn’t an Impala because that’s just a little too close to the jagged edges, traveling and hunting and chasing the ghosts of things he shouldn’t remember. That day, there was a haunting. Simple, salt and burn (the first thing he picked up; salt and burns, the guy who’d shown him said it was plain and easy and the perfect thing to start that boy looking for Winchesters on). He’s hit the coffin and climbed out, ready to burn the sucker, when she shouts from across the cemetery and he turns just in time to blast the obnoxious old hag into oblivion. He doesn’t see the source of the voice; just drops the match on the gasoline and watches yet another set of bones burn into oblivion.

At the bar, he flirts with a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and _she_ buys _him_ a drink and says “Next time, don’t forget to watch your back,” before disappearing with a wink.

 

Much, much later, he learns her specialty is a language no one else speaks when she whispers dead words against his skin and traces symbols even she doesn’t recognize on his spine.

 

Ben doesn’t believe in fate, but after running across Blondie three times in as many months, he takes the hint. They’re performing an exorcism and the Latin rolls off her tongue like she was born to carry power and that night he learns her name is Claire when he’s busy tugging her jeans down past her ankles.

In his life, there are two kinds of people; those who’ve heard of the Winchesters, and those who haven’t. The hunters all do; everyone remembers the apocalypse. Even some civilians have heard of Sam and Dean, if not in the detail that the hunters have. Claire has. She doesn’t say how, but he remembers bits of conversations he wasn’t supposed to hear, mentions of angels and hell and has kept his ears open since; when he asks her what she knows of either, she stiffens with half of her gun disassembled and when she leaves, he doesn’t see her again for two weeks.

 

She keeps her secrets well, locked behind walls he thinks might be higher than his own.

 

It takes another month of alternately sleeping together and working out jobs together before they actually start hunting together. She doesn’t ditch her Jeep, but she follows him where the jobs lead and that’s enough for him.

Once, after she sends a room full of demons back to hell with words he knows aren’t Latin, he asks her what the hell that was. Her eyes go distant when she says it’s nothing, and when he yanks on her arm to demand answers he shuts his trap quick enough at the real-life sparks crashing in her eyes.

 

Claire curls against him, her razor-cut hair tickling against his arms and chest, and it occurs to Ben that he doesn’t even know her real last name, or how old she is, or where she’s from.

She whimpers something that sounds like “no, daddy,” and then reverently breathes; “Castiel”. It makes no sense, but Ben tightens his arms around her and waits for her breathing to even out like it always does.

He traces the protection symbol on her chest and watches the strange script that spans her shoulder blades shift as she snuggles further against him.

 

He’s in bed reading an old lore book he picked up at a library book-sale in some small town when she looks up from the knife she’s sharpening, knuckles white on the grip, and says, “Once, I was possessed by an angel.”

 

“His name was Dean,” Ben says, one day, and Claire’s eyes go wide.


End file.
